


First Shot's Mine

by aiden_13



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Other, Suggestive Themes, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-13 03:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18460397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiden_13/pseuds/aiden_13
Summary: A slightly angsty Junker!Reader x Junkrat fic :) Non-binary reader (violence and swearing warning) I’m actually not sure what to rate this SFW but with suggestive themes??? Kinda’ sorta’ NSFW????





	1. Chapter 1

You’re leaning against the counter, loading your shotgun. You worked too hard to keep this bar up and running, but every single Founder’s Day, some idiot threatens to fuck it up… well, idiots… Alright, if you had to be frank: all of Junkertown getting drunk in one location wasn’t great for any business… 

But to digress, you pay your share like every does in this town, slightly less than everyone else (the Queen was partial to your cocktails and seemed to have a soft spot for you.) You would’ve thought being the only bar in all of Junkertown would make the locals value the place more, but you’re replacing furniture on the weekly. 

The rules were clearly on the wall: 

1\. You pay before you get your drink. 

2\. Settle fights outside.

3\. No fucking in the bathroom. 

4\. If someone’s wanted, owner gets first shot. 

“Where do you want the extra bottles?” Your barback calls from the stock room. 

“Uh… Damn it,” you mutter, you lost count of the shells you had loaded, “If it’s the liquor just leave it back there, bring the beer out here.”

“Alrightie, boss,” with a grunt heaves the crates to the front and starts stacking them, a few meters in front of you. 

He wipes the sweat from his brow and watches you fiddle with the gun, “Expecting that much trouble tonight?”

“Better over-prepared than under,” you slide the pump back and the gun loads noisily in response. 

“True… should I sweep the rubbish out?”

“Hmm… sure, her Highness might grace us with her presence tonight,” you set the gun aside on the counter and turn to the liquor shelf behind you. “Huh… we’re running low on gin. Did we get the new shipment?”

“The crates in the back are all we got this morning. I haven’t checked yet,” he deposits a third crate of beer in the front. 

“Hmm,” you muse to yourself, walking back into the dusty storeroom. You crack open the crates with a crowbar and peer inside. 

Shit.

“Dusty!” You call to your barback. “We got fucking skimped.”

“Jesus fuck… I’m sorry, boss, I shoulda’ checked before leaving.”

You click your tongue, “Mhm, like I taught you.”

“How much we missing?” He frowns. 

“There should’ve been 3 bottles of gin, 3 of vodka, and 2 whiskey.”

He comes into the back room and peers at the crate over your shoulder, “Fuckin’ chump skimped us of three whole fucking bottles.”

“This is just the first crate too… let’s crack open the rest and see what else we’re missing,” you sigh. 

After ten disappointing minutes, anger and annoyance rising with each crate opened, you stand back and take stock. 

“Nine… ten.. twelve…” Dusty counts.

“Eleven,” you correct him.

“Oh sorry, eleven… twelve… thirteen! We’re missing thirteen bottles!” He gapes. 

“Alrightie, let’s pay Mick a visit,” you cross your arms.

“We have to goddamn drive all the way back out again?” He groans. 

“Oh yeah, and we have Mick to thank for that,” you narrow your eyes. 

Mick had been a reliable and decent source for a while, but he is a Junker after all. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After packing shop and hopping onto your motorcycle, the two of you make the 30 minute drive all the way out of Junkertown and to the outskirts: Port’s Edge. It’s a raucous gathering of tents, shacks, stalls, carts, and run-down cars full of marvelous wares for sale. You could get almost everything you wanted from the outside world here, for the right price that is… 

You don’t even bother taking your helmet off. You grab your shot-gun and stroll up to the most brightly dressed junker in the lot. He sports eccentric garb of mismatched cultures and an impressively large mustache for such a small face.

He sees you coming and spreads his arms, “Ahh!!! *your name*!!! Looking amazing as ever-”

“Can it, Micks,” you growl, “I’m here for the thirteen bottles of booze you skimped on me.”

He rubs his hands together apologetically, “Ah, please, *your name*, you must be mistaken. I would never do that to such a loyal customer!”

Your barback points at him, “No, you’re mistaken if you think we’d pay you that much fucking money UPFRONT just to lose out on thirteen bottles.” 

“Oooohhhh! Those bottles! Ah yes,” he backs into his stall, “How about I give you two crates and we call it even?”

“Not good, enough, Micks,” you grab him by the shirt collar, “You think you could try and cheat us and not face any repercussions?”

The colorful man wilts, “Look, look. I’m sorry. I… It’s just..”

“Spit it out!” You demand.

Mick sits down on a nearby crate, looking considerably tired and worn, “This morning… we got hit. Me and boys lost about five crates in the fight and the thieves made off with four more crates. And I know you hate me for it, *your name* but I have other customers who’d shoot m’face off before giving me the chance to talk like you did.” 

Your tone softens a bit as you take a seat next to him, “Hardly can call them thieves if they’re just taking back their cargo, Mick.”

Mick shakes his head, “No, no! Wasn’t them! It was two Junkers that got us. The uh… what’s their names? The ones the Queen doesn’t let in no more!”

“Junkrat and Roadhog?” Your barback raises a brow. 

“Yeah! Them! Fucking broke Thomas’s wrist, they did,” Mick gestures to the sour looking Junker a few stalls down, nursing a very swollen, poorly bandaged wrist. 

“Ugh,” you rub your temples, “What a fine fucking mess we’re in.”

“I’m sorry… I hoped you’d be too busy to notice,” Micks said with a sheepish grin, “I can give you six bottles and once a new shipment comes in, I’ll deliver the remaining seven and toss in two free bottles for your trouble.” 

“Thanks, Mick,” you smile, patting your gun, “I’m glad I didn’t have to use this.”

“I’m glad you didn’t either,” he laughs, “I remember the last time you shot someone with it. Fellow can’t chew anymore.”

You and Mick laugh heartily, while Dusty manages a nervous laugh. 

You place a hand on the man’s shoulder, “You gonna’ be alright, Mick? What are you going to do with that much stock loss?” 

Mick knits his brows together and rubs his mustache thoughtfully, “Honestly, if you can let me crash at your bar in a week and hide out until the next shipment… I’ll be fine.”

“Of course, old friend, of course,” you give him a firm handshake and a strong pat on the back. 

“Alright, now, what do I owe ye?” He rubs his hands together and begins sifting through the crates. 

After a few more jokes and a bit more haggling, you and Dusty load a crate onto the motorcycle, strapping it down tightly. 

“You sure you’re gonna be safe out here? It’s Founder’s Day,” you get on the motorcycle.

Mick smiles widely, “Ah! I’ll be fine. I have just enough stock to placate the less reasonable customers for their celebratin’ needs.” 

“Alright, Mick, if anything happens, you know where to find me,” you smile and rev the bike. 

As you pull away, Mick becomes but a colorful dot in the distance.

“You’re getting soft,” Dusty says. 

“Mick’s an old friend,” you shrug. 

“And an old cheat. He’s skimped us before, a bottle here a bottle there… blamin’ it on the old age.”

“Maybe he’s lying, maybe he’s not. I can’t blame him for pulling that on us though. Mick’s right, we’re downright fucking reasonable compared to some blokes around here.”

“Too reasonable,” he huffs. “Bastard nearly conned us outta’ thirteen bottles.”

“And if he doesn’t deliver the nine he promised by shipment, we’ll go back and blow his kneecaps off. Don’t worry about it, Dusty,” you say simply. 

“I know how important this place is to you *your name*,” he leans a bit closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. “And you’ve been really good to me and my family. I just want to make sure nothing threatens that, ya know?” 

“Loyalty’s appreciated, Dusty, but don’t let loyalty overtake goals. If I shot Mick’s face off, we wouldn’t have a supplier anymore.”

“Yeah… but still.”

“Noted,” you chuckle. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After unloading the new crate you take a deep breath and ready yourself. Dusty unlocks the front door and stands back behind the counter with you, toying with his dagger. Any minute now. 

The entire city is quiet, unusually quiet. Everyone is busy at the scrap yard, betting their meager savings or battling it out for glory. Every now and then a rumbling roar punctuates the silence. 

“You think the Queen’s battling this year?” Dusty balances the blade’s handle on his finger tip. 

“No one’s challenged her, so I think not,” you reply, wiping the counter down. 

“I wish I was King,” he sighs wistfully. 

“Oh yeah?” You smile. “Got the hots for her like every other person in Junkertown?”

He pulls a face but sounds a tad too indignant to be convincing, “No! I mean… I wish I was King. Period. Of Junkertown.”

You begin setting out glasses on the counter, “And pray tell what would you do as King?”

“Expand our territories!! Why stay in the Outback? There’s all of Australia to take back!” 

“Where would you get the resources? The army to fund all this?”

Dusty twirls his knife, looking smug and confident, “See that’s the best part. Why lay siege on an all-out war? When we can hit ‘em with gorilla warfare!”

“Guerilla,” you correct him.

“That’s what I said,” he protests.

You don’t have time to argue as the door bursts open. A large junker, a brute of a man, battered, bruise, looking worst for wear but triumphant and holding a fat, fat stack of cash staggers in. A chattering crowd follows him. 

“I’m buying drinks for everyone!!! Round’s on me!!” He slams the stack on the counter.

Dusty hops to action, grabbing more glasses as you chuckle, “Beer? Liquor?”

“Pour me a glass of gin, will ya’ sweetheart? And get drinks for my friends as well.”

You tap the stack of cash with a raised brow and a knowing smile, “All of it?”

“All of it,” he nods, flashing you a bloody grin, much to the cheering of his friends. You smile and take the stack, tossing it to Dusty. He immediately heads for the safe in the backroom to stow it away. 

You pour the shots generously and motion for Dusty to bring you another bottle. Soon, the bar is full of junkers. Celebrating their betting victories, celebrating Founder’s day, commiserating over their losses, plain getting plastered to forget their losses… 

“Keepin’ up, Dusty?” You ask, watching the frazzled young man lift up another crate of beer. 

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he flashes you a big grin. 

You watch him duck and weave through the crowd to deliver the crate to the rowdy party in the corner. You pour yourself a drink and pour an extra glass. You watch as the young man exchanges some words with the junkers. One of them motions to you and Dusty mumbles something, clearly stumbling over his words. The crowd roars with laughter. 

He comes back, looking a bit sour. You hand him a glass and his expression brightens. 

“What’s this for?” He takes a sniff. 

“You worked hard. It’s also Founder’s Day. Have a little bit of fun,” you lift your glass towards him. 

He’s dumbfounded for a moment, then smiles and clinks your glass with his,”Cheers!” 

You sip the drink, savoring it. Dusty shoots it. 

He pauses, waiting for a burn that’ll never come, “Huh… that was smooth as fuck.”

“Mhm,” you show him the bottle. 

“Fuck, we’re drinking this?” He’s admiring the label. 

“It’s Founder’s Day,” you smile, swirling the drink gently. 

He refills his glass and takes a tentative sip, mimicking you.

“Good, huh?” You ask. 

“That’s dangerous, right there,” he shoots the rest of the glass, “I could drink that entire bottle and not know how much booze is in there.”

A junker stumbles to the counter, “Ay *your name*, make me one of them drinks?”

“Gotta’ be more specific, Madge,” you smile, grabbing your shaker. 

“What’s the one? That real classic,” she slurs, “The uh…Spanish soundin’ one?”

You laugh, “An ‘Adios Motherfucker’?”

“Yeah, that’s the one! Knew I could always count on you, love for knowing your shit!” She smiles and slaps a couple coins onto the counter. 

You swipe them into your back pocket and proceed to making the drink. Lucky for you, Adios Motherfuckers are just a lot of booze and a wee bit more of colored booze for that signature bright blue. 

You hand the happy customer their drink and lean back. The group in the corner called out for another bottle of gin. Seamlessly, you drop the shaker into the sink and swiftly grab two bottles of gin from the wall and make your way over. 

The battered junker smiled, welcoming you with open arms, “*Your name*, darling, I only asked for one bottle.”

You shrug and give your best customer-service smile, “It’s not often I get to entertain Junkertown’s mech champion. The extra bottle is on the house.”

He grabs your hand in a strong grip, “I appreciate it, mate. Anything ya’ need, let me and my gang know.”

You smile, a genuine one, “Thank you, will do.”

“And, uh, that barback of yours?” 

“Dusty?”

“Good kid, got a bit of a thing for you.”

You chuckle, “Ah, so that’s what that comment was earlier.”

“Got real huffy when I asked if you’s was single,” he laughs and his friends follow suit. 

You laugh with the crowd and excuse yourself back to behind the counter. The bottle you cracked open for yourself and Dusty is a third of the way empty.

“Christ, slow down or else I’ll have to tuck you into bed in an hour, Dusty,” you caution him, topping off off your own glass. 

He’s swaying slightly, steadying himself by gripping onto the counter, “You know, I can think of better things for you to do, than tuck me in bed.”

You pause, raising a brow, then laugh, “You’re fucking drunk.”

“And you, are fucking hot,” he declares. 

“I’m flattered,” you pat him on the shoulder, “But no.” 

“Look, I know I’m a lot younger… and I work for you,” he’s working up his courage right now… it’s… commendable? 

You give him a grin through gritted teeth, “No, Dusty. You don’t want any of this.” 

“But, I do,” he grabs you by the waist, and is beginning to lean dangerously closer.

Someone bursts into the bar and you hear glasses shattering. Thankful for the distraction, you straighten up, shaking him from you, “No, you really don’t.” 

You turn towards the direction of the noise and feel your heart stop. It can’t be. 

You grab the shot gun and leap over the bar counter. You reload it with a sharp pump, “Long time, no see you flamin’ piece of shit.”

“*Your name*! I’ve missed you too, darl’,” he strolls right up to the counter with a big grin on his face.

The entire bar has come to a screeching halt. Those sober enough to look surprised are indeed gaping and those too drunk to be surprised are taking a moment to collect themselves.

“It’s… it’s Junkrat,” someone gasps. 

The crowd murmurs a bit and you can hear knives being drawn and guns being loaded. 

You point the shot-gun barrel right into his face, “Oh yeah, and read the rules on the wall, everyone. Owner gets first shot.” 

The crowd pauses, waiting for you. 

“Oh come, darl’, I didn’t think you’d be that angry,” he gives you a sheepish grin. 

“Wha-what is he talkin’ about?” Dusty pushes past the crowd to your side. 

Junkrat scowls, “And who the fuck are you?”

“I’m their barback,” he says defensively. You’re rolling your eyes. 

“Ya’ look like a drunk to me,” Junkrat scoffs. 

“I’m their support! Their second hand!” Dusty scowls. 

You pull a face, indicative of the growing annoyance inside you. 

“…anyway, like I was sayin’, didn’t think you’d be this angry, love,” Junkrat laughs. 

You fire the shotgun right next to his good-leg making him jump and yelp, “Oh, I’m pass angry, Jamison. I’m fucking homicidal.” 

“Jami-who?” Dusty mutters. 

“*Your name*, look, I wanna’ respect what you have going on here, but…” a big Junker gets up, brandishing a large knife, “You fired the first shot, mate.”

“Ah, fuck,” you mutter, realizing what you did. 

Junkrat frowns, “They wha-”

Thick meaty hands wrap around Junkrat’s neck and he’s flying right into the bar’s wall. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” You shout. 

Chaos erupts. Junkers are beating the living hell out of each other with whatever they could find: chairs, bottles, glasses, tables… You don’t have enough time to be angry at the complete and utter destruction the entire fight is wrecking on your establishment. You need to find Jamison. 

You expertly duck, weave, and dodge your way through the crowd. Knowing him he’d be… there!

Junkrat is being throttled by a much larger Junker in the corner. You run up and slam the butt of the gun into the junker’s throat and he drops down, wheezing for air. Quickly, you toss a tablecloth on Junkrat and steer him away from the chaos into the bathroom. Everyone is just drunk enough that they’re throwing fists indiscriminately and grabbing the closest bodies they could find without really knowing if its Junkrat or not.

You slam the bathroom door shut and slide the lock in place.

“Alright, we have maybe five minutes tops? You need to get moving, what were you THINKING coming back here? And during Founder’s fucking day!” You admonish him while checking his wounds. “Do you get a fucking kick out of ruining my fucking-”

He grabs you by the waist and kisses you. You melt. You missed this, you missed him. 

Your brain clicks back to reality and you shove him off, “I’m still fucking mad.”

His voice is soft and sincere, he reaches back out and pulls you in again, “I know… I know, I’m sorry, darl.”

You’ve cried too much these last few months to cry now, you could only glare at him bitterly, “Without a FUCKING WORD. You left WITHOUT A FUCKING WORD.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he lifts your hand up and kisses it tenderly. 

“I hope it was fucking worth it,” you try your hardest to keep glaring at him.

His grin lights up a bit, “Ah, yes it was. I’m going to fucking ruin her.”

You shake your head, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

“Oh yeah, I do!” He giggles.

You roll your eyes but smile, pulling him in and meeting his lips with yours. He gives a small laugh and lifts you up and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, your lips never leaving his as the kiss grows sloppier, more passionate. 

“Where THE FUCK IS HE?!!” A voice shouts outside. 

You know you should stop. He needs to go before it gets too dangerous. But the feeling on his body on yours is delicious. And as angry, heartbroken, defeated he left you… you crave the taste of him. 

He stops for a moment and looks at you, flush and breathless from the kiss, “If we keep going at it, love, we’re going to end up fucking, again.” 

“Not the first time we’ve fucked while surrounded by eminent danger,” you kiss him on the forehead, sighing, “but you’re right, let’s get going…”

“Mmm, I remember the dingoes,” he laughs into your neck, gently nipping at it.

“Mhm, let’s go, babe,” you shudder, but untangle yourself from him and take a deep breath. 

“I like it when you tell me what to do,” he bites his lips.

“Oh, fuck off,” you grin.

You crack the door open a bit, and thankfully the scene is still in full blown chaos.

“Alright…. now!”

You crack the door open and the two of you zip from the bathroom over to the supply room. You lock the door and turn to Jamison. 

“Alright, punch me,” you say.

“Oh, darl’, it wouldn’t be right,” he grimaces. 

“Yeah, neither would me being the last one to see Junkrat and ‘letting him slip.’ Now do it. Come on, I’ve taken plenty worst from you.”

“Yeah you have,” he snorts with laughter.

“Oh real mature, fucking punch me, cunt,” you’re stifling the laugh. 

“Alright,” he winds up and slams a solid fist into your left eye socket. 

You stagger back, unable to comprehend the amount of pain, out of breath for some odd reason. He’s by your side, swearing and cradling you in his arms.

“Ah, fuck, I knew this was a shit, idea. I am so sorry, love.” 

“It’s… it’s fine. Fuck. You can really throw a punch.”

“Learned from the best,” he smiles, tapping his gold canine. 

“Should’ve never taught you,” you roll your good eye. 

“Look… I promise that after this nonsense is done, I’ll be here, I’ll be with you,” he takes your hands in his. 

You frown, “Jamison, babe…”

“No, no I swear, I swear. After this all done, and the Queen gets what’s coming for her.. it’ll just be you and me, darl.”

“Don’t make promises, Jamie,” you find yourself holding back tears, “Just… just stay alive.” 

“Of course,” he smiles, kissing you on the forehead. “The plan’s foolproof!”

You grip him by the bandolier straps, “Please, Jamie.”

His tone softens, “I… I care about you more than anythin’ in the world, *your name*.”

You feel a bit bitter but you kiss him softly, “The window’s unlocked, just hop out and… I don’t know, toss a few smoke bombs in here or something?”

He kisses you one last time, deeply, breathing in your scent. When you finally part, he looks at you in the eye, “When all of this is over, I’ll come back for ya.’” 

“Good bye, Jamie,” you let his hand go.

You watch him clamber onto of the crates and wriggle out of the window. 

“Fire in the hole!” You hear him call with a laugh. 

A bomb rolls through the window and goes off with a sharp bang. You throw the stock room’s door open dramatically and muster as much anger in your voice as possible, “He’s outside!!! The fucker slipped out!!”

The crowd swarms outside and within seconds, the bar is strangely quiet. 

You walk behind the counter and grab the liquor bottle, downing the rest of it in a few greedy gulps. 

“You look like shit,” Dusty stumbles to the counter.

You laugh, “Hah, speak for yourself.” 

“Did he… did Junkrat do that?” 

You put on your best scowl, “Yeah, but I’ve taken worst. How about you?”

“I might or might not have thrown a punch at the champ.”

“For hitting on me?” You tease him.

He blushes, “No! Well… I’m sorry about earlier. It was… inappropriate.”

“It’s fine, Dusty. I’ve made stupid mistakes while drunk too,” you look around the absolutely decimated bar, “Buying and opening a bar in Junkertown for one.” 

“It’s not stupid,” he retorts, “I.. I do like you.”

You sigh, “You’re a good kid, Dusty. Don’t go chasin’ after me. I’m just me.” 

Dusty looks up, lowering his voice, “It’s him isn’t it.”

“Hmm?”

“I can tell when you had your gun pointed at him. How much he hurt you…How much you love him.”

You don’t say anything. 

“Your secret’s safe with me, *your name*,” he gives you the saddest smile. “As long as he makes you happy… that’s enough for me.” 

You lean downwards and pick up two bottles of beer and uncap them. You place one in front of him. 

“Happy Founder’s Day, Dusty.”

He grabs the bottle and gives you a small smile, “Happy Founder’s Day, *your name*.”


	2. First Shot's Mine pt. II: The Royal Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ya boi’s back with a continuation of this Junker!Reader x Junkrat fic :) Non-binary reader, SFW (violence and swearing warning!)

It’s been a few days since Dusty came into work. You didn’t blame the young man: he drank enough liquor to happily satiate three grizzled Junkers. The hangover must be killing him right now. Deep down, you knew he was avoiding you: tussling with the internal conflict of turning in Junkrat. 

You straighten up, hearing your back crack. You’d been cleaning for three days straight to remedy the mess of Founder’s Day. The place looked… alright? 

You tut and take mental stock of things that needed to be replaced: you needed probably 4-5 new chairs, 2 new tables, countless mugs and glasses… 

You shake your head and walk behind the counter, thinking about everything at once is too much. You mind races back to Dusty. He’s a good kid. Hard-working kid and big dreamer. Unlike most Junkers whose aspirations started and ended at the Scrap Yard’s betting booths, Dusty wanted to see the outside world. 

On the flip side, he had a quick temper and often gave in to short-term indulgence without much thought for the consequences. The shotgun gleams in front of you, hanging patiently on its hooks. Maybe if…The passing thought makes you sick to your stomach: Dusty’s the age Jamison was when you two met. 

You purse your lips and bite them absentmindedly. Junkrat purposefully didn’t tell you his plan. You reasonably and realistically knew nothing. Dozens of other Junkers saw him in your bar, another Junker tipping off the Queen wouldn’t do much. And yet, the thought gnawed at your inside, making your skin crawl.

You give a sharp, annoyed sigh (though you’re the only one in the bar) and grab your shotgun off the wall. 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

After a quick trip to the market, you’re making your way through Junkertown’s lower east end. It’s a series of cobbled together apartments made up of the old inner workings of omnium. Crafty junkers from who knows when had split it up and boarded up walls into makeshift living spaces. 

You’ve carried Dusty home many times before. This, this was the first time you were visiting him. Your grip tightens on the sack you’re carrying, feeling the shotgun burn into your back. It was a hot day. 

You clear your throat and knock, “Hey, Dusty, it’s me, *your name.*”

You hear a bit of rustling and a thump, the sound of cans being scattered about and a bit of swearing. 

He opens the door, looking extremely worst for wear, “Oh, hey boss! I… I wasn’t expecting guests.”

“It’s fine, I probably should’ve given you a heads-up that I was coming,”

Dusty shuffles a bit in the doorway then sighs and pulls the door wide open, gesturing you to come in, “Well, no need for formalities. You’ve seen my place. Dragged my drunk ass back here plenty of times.”

You step into the apartment and close the door, “You alright?”

Dusty flashes a smile, “Never better.” 

“You’re.. you’re missing a tooth,” you grimace, setting the sack on the kitchen counter. And by kitchen counter, one means the shelf against the wall with a single hotplate on it. Unplugged. 

He laughs a bit, “Yeah, I lost it at the betting cages last night.” 

You purse your lips, “I brought you some food. Well, mostly hangover remedies.” 

Dusty turns on his heel and heads for the sack, patting your shoulder, “Aw, thanks! Make yourself at home!” 

While he rummages through the sack, you take a seat on the mattress in the corner, as it is the only “seat” in the entire room. Dusty has not a single chair to his name. The nightstand/dining table/desk (aka an upturned wooden crate purloined from the bar’s stock room) is crowded with empty liquor bottles and beer cans. 

“No, way! How’d you get this?” Dusty admires the glass bottle of orange soda in the sunlight. 

“I have friends,” you smile, “Also, said friends smashed half my bar, so the least they could do is sell me their goods at half price.”

Dusty whistles, “Still a pretty penny.”

“It’s going towards something good,” you shrug. 

He smiles for a bit, but stops. He sets the bottle back on the shelf and turns to you, “We.. we should talk.” 

You blink, “Uh, yeah, sure. What is it?”

“I.. I, uhm..” Dusty coughs, “I want to quit.” 

You feel the oppressive heat all at once, “Quit? Why?”

“I’ve been doing something thinking, *your name* and I want to leave. I want to leave Junkertown.”

You can feel the tightness in your chest relax, “That’s really admirable, Dusty. But do you have the funds? The resources?” 

“I’ve saved up quite a bit, made a nice fat stack last night at the betting booths,” he points at the missing tooth. “So, with your uh, permission… I’m quitting.”

You chuckle, “Dusty, you don’t need my permission to do anything.”

“I do for at least one thing in this world,” he looks at you with sad, sad eyes. 

Your breath catches in your throat, “I’m sorry, Dusty.”

“Nothing to be sorry, about, *your name,* it’s just.. I hope this is really what you want.” 

You bite your lip, “Yeah.”

He walks over and sits next to you on the mattress, “How’d you meet him?”

You feel the heat rise in your cheek, “You really wanna’ hear the story?”

He nudges you with his elbow, “I figure I should know who beat me to the punch.”

You roll your eyes but smile, “He had a five year head start on you.”

Dusty scoffs, “*Your name,* I was too drunk to make this point a few nights ago, but you’re literally three years older than me.”

“Fair enough.” 

“When… when did you meet him?”

You look up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with your eyes, “I was eighteen and he was twenty. I was doing a delivery run for Mick, my first real, paying job, and my motorcycle broke down right in front of Junkertown gates.”

Dusty rolls his eyes, “Fuck, *your name*, didn’t think you were the type to swoon for a man if he fixed your bike.”

You rib him sharply, “I didn’t finish, idiot. Also he didn’t fix my bike, he tried to steal my cargo.” 

Dusty pulls a face. 

You continue, “Idiot damn near blew my arm off. But he didn’t carry his grenade launcher back then, hadn’t made it yet. Just strapped on as many bombs as he could to his body.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or just fucking with me,” your barback shakes his head. 

You give a small chuckle and continue, “The idiot ended up hurting himself. Didn’t predict shrapnel trajectory when he threw a mine at me. Ended up ripping up his arm reaalll bad.”

“This story is clearly romantic as shit.”

“I could’ve left him there for the dogs. But, I don’t know… Mick had just taken a huge risk and gave me a job. Trusted me out of the blue. Junker’s don’t do that. So, I… I helped Junkrat,” you laugh, a bit cynically, “It’s fucking funny that the first time I was inspired to be selfless was for that prick.” 

Dusty shakes his head, “So you’re telling me, I lost on out on you because Mick was a decent person?”

“It’s… more complicated than that. I mean, don’t you want to be more than just a Junker, Dusty?” You ask.

His head hangs a bit, “More than anything.”

“Junkers are merciless. We steal, cheat, and murder. We run businesses for the sake of normality and slight order, but deep down… it’s everyone for themselves,” you stare at the dust motes, floating lazily through the air, “If I had killed Junkrat that day, or left him for dead… I think I wouldn’t be the person I am now.”

“So, showing mercy changed you?”

“Showing compassion changed me,” you nod, “It’s just so happened that it was Junkrat.”

“So what after?”

“Carried him and the cargo into Junkertown. Delivered it. Found him a medic.”

“And what? He just fell head over heels for you.”

“Nah, he hated me for a while. Thought I was making fun of him,” you smile wistfully, trying to snatch a golden mote out of the air, “You know, like I let him live to prove a point. I think he tried to kill me that same week.” 

“Christ, you know how to pick ‘em don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you chuckle, “After a few weeks of trying to kill me, he finally confronted me. Got real emotional and angry and defensive about it.”

“I… I can see that,” Dusty nods. 

“Going on and on about how I wounded his pride by letting him live and insulted him by having the nerve of getting him help. I was pretty annoyed by then too. He was making me late for every delivery I got assigned and Mick was getting annoyed too.”

“As one does.”

“So, I just told him, ‘I saved your life because I was trying to be a decent person.’“

“That must’ve set him off,” your barback snorts. 

“Oh, Dusty, you should’ve seen him,” you laugh. “He nearly fucking self-imploded. I told him if he didn’t believe me, then he should just leave me alone.”

“He didn’t, did he?”

“The man literally goes and finds my boss and goes off about how I’m the worst, most cruel person on earth. And how I should be fired immediately from my job for lack of professionalism.”

“…when are you going to tell me how you fell in love with him?”

“Patience, patience,” you pat his knee, “Anywho, Mick isn’t an idiot so he got him locked up for attempted theft of his goods. This was back when Mick was a good friend of the Queen and was in her good favor.”

“Oh, wow, huh, never would’ve thought that was possible,” Dusty looks slightly impressed and surprised.

“Yeah, I went and talked to Mick. Explained the whole ordeal, and Mick ends up laughing so hard he nearly threw him up his lunch. Let Junkrat go with a warning, an official one from the Queen. Would’ve fined him too but Mick convinced her that fining a penniless Junker wasn’t going to result in much.”

“An official warning… they roughed him up?” Dusty pulls a face. The Queen had a thing for making examples of people. 

“Roughed him up, pretty good,” you shake your head, “So much fucking’ blood.” 

“That how he lost his arm and leg?” Dusty asks softly. 

“Nah, those were… separate occasions. I dragged his sorry ass to the medic and this time around, he was incapacitated enough he couldn’t try and kill me.” 

“Ah, played nurse and he fell right into your arms,” Dusty swoons dramatically. 

You allow yourself a small laugh, “Not quite. While he was bedridden, I got to have an actual conversation with him. Managed to convince him that I really wasn’t making fun of him or insulting him. I was just… just trying to be something else. Something different.” 

“He fall for you then?”

“Every time we talk about it, he says that while I was talking, something ticked inside of him. Like he was seeing ‘life for what it could be’ for the first time,” you say, then laugh, “But I’m almost certain it was the drugs. He was high off his ass.” 

“No, no, I can see what he’s talking about,” Dusty pulls his knees to his chest. 

“And… I guess that’s that. He started hanging around the gate more and I’d stop after my delivery routes to talk to him.” 

“Huh,” Dusty muses. 

“I know, I know, it’s a bit of a lame story.”

“Still haven’t told me why you love him.”

You take a deep breath and get, pacing the small room, “He… he’s wild, reckless, but adventurous and brave. He’s courageous and resilient in the face of absolute defeat. He never gave a shit about the Queen’s rules and honestly, out here that means something.”

“I thought you and the Queen were chummy, like mates and all,” Dusty frowns.

You take another deep breath and lift your shirt up, revealing the jagged, snargling scar stretching across your stomach and up your side. 

Dusty leaps up and is immediately at your side. 

You look at him, “She made an example of me ages ago. She’s only kind to me now because I bend my knee like the little pet I am. Just another loyal follower.” 

Dusty tentatively reaches out to touch you, but he stops himself, “I’m sorry, *your name.* You should’ve told me.”

You smile, “It’s not your problem. I can handle myself.” 

“Is he really worth all this? If the Queen finds out, she’ll do worst than make an example of you,” his voice rises in panic.

You cup his face with your hands, “I’m fine, Dusty. I don’t know anything. You saw it yourself. I was just as surprised as all of Junkertown when he showed up.” 

He leans into your hands, nudging them gently with his cheek, “I… I don’t want you to get hurt. Especially since you’re with… with him.” 

You speak softly, quietly as though the walls could hear, “The Queen is not who she appears. She’s cruel. Manipulative. And a liar. No one here knows much about the outside world and she sings the same old song about revolution and war to keep us content with isolating ourselves. Don’t do that to yourself, Dusty. Leave here if you can.”

He gulps and embraces you, his voice cracks, “I will. I just wish you’d come with me.”

“My job isn’t finished here,” you smile, parting from him. 

“He’s… he’s fucking lucky to have you,” he says, starting at the corner of the room rather ruefully. 

“I think so too,” you try a small joke but he doesn’t laugh, “I’m gonna’ get going, Dusty.”

“Oh yeah, right,” he clears his throat. 

You begin to turn to leave. 

“Uh, *your name*, your gun,” he hands you the weapon, a distinct waver in his voice as he did. 

“Oh, yeah, thank you, Dusty,” you take the gun back. 

“Well, thanks for stopping by boss. And thanks for the snacks.. and..” his voice trails off as he suddenly grabs your hands, “Thank you. Truly, for everything. And thinking I can be better than all of this.” 

You can feel your eyes growing wetter. You clear your throat, “Of course Dusty. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“I’ll make you proud,” he nods his head firmly, “And maybe I can help you too, some day.” 

He smiles and closes the door. 

You walk a couple steps down the long apartment hall, before stopping and leaning against the wall. You choke back some tears and chastise yourself for even bringing the gun. Dusty is no fool. He knew why you brought the gun. 

You finally compose yourself enough to complete the walk out of the building. You thank the heavens and stars for not having to use it. And you wish with all your heart that he have safe passage across the Outback and away from this hell hole. 

~ ~ ~

The next morning felt strange. Quiet. Usually when you came into bar, Dusty would already be there. He’d hit you with a smart-ass comment and you’d banter back. The place felt different. Colder without him. 

You set to start the third round of cleaning when two armed Junkers walked through the door. 

“I’m sorry, friends, bar’s closed until-” You note the their armbands. “Ah, the Royal Guard, what can I do for you?”

The Junker closest to you gives you a brief nod as a greeting, “The Queen heard that Junkrat was in your bar a few nights ago.”

“That he was,” you nod. 

“She’s pulling in any Junker who saw him and asking questions, but so far-”

You give a friendly smile, “They’ve all been drunks. I get it. Give me a second, let me pack up shop.” 

“Thank you for cooperating,” the guard grins back. “Queen’s really got it out for this wily fuck.” 

You keep smiling, “Anything for an old friend.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The guards escort you to the Queen’s palace. It’s been years since you visited the Scrap Yard. The distinct smell of rust and cheap booze sting your nostrils. Past the mech battle grounds stands her throne. An impressive long weapon rests against it.

You’re admiring the large open throne room when your eyes land on the Royal Guard standing adjacent to the throne.

You knit your brows in confusion, “Dusty?” 

He meets your eyes and he looks so… sad. So guilty. 

“What’s going on?” You ask, but you already knew. You could feel it in the air. 

“Glad you, could join us *your name*,” a very familiar voice greets you.

You drop immediately to your knees, placing an arm across your chest in salute, “Your highness.” 

“*Your name*, darling please, no need for formalities, we’re all friends here,” she gently pulls you up. “Now, I heard a little rumor that Junkrat was back in town? In your bar?”

“Rumor’s right. He burst right in during peak business hours. A full fucking brawl broke out and ruined my bar,” you scowl. 

“Didn’t think to tell me?” She pouts a bit. 

You put up your hands disarmingly, “I apologize, my Queen. I honestly thought you’d hear about it your own guard. They were drinking there that night as well, and well… I have my business to worry about it. But you’re right, I should’ve also notified you as a citizen of Junkertown.”

“Ah, no worries, no harm done really, besides to your poor bar.” 

“Is this all, my Queen?”

“Not quite,” she sits back on her throne and toys with her gun, “Lovely, ain’t it?”

“Exceptionally,” you nod.

“Now, tell me *your name* how does Jamison plan on ‘getting back’ at me this time?”

You feel your heart skip a beat, “Excuse me?”

She smiles, “I know you’re his lover and thus his weakest link.” 

Your eyes flit towards Dusty. He doesn’t meet your eye and you clench every muscle in your body.

The Queen gets up, with her terrifying gun in hand, “No use running, love. I have you surrounded. But back to the point… Darling, I adore you. You’re not like the other Junkers in town. You’re smart, decisive, and above all else, compassionate.”

“Uhm, thank you?”

“You know why I love compassionate people? They’re predictable. They care. Once they care, they have a weakness that can be exploited.”

You gulp quietly.

“Jamison never had a weakness. The man was wild, reckless, a total nuisance since he came to this town,” she practically snarled while thinking about him, “But you, you made him weak. You gave him a weakness.” 

She’s standing inches away from you, smiling. Smiling that awful shit-eating grin of hers. 

She continues grinning, “How do you do it *your name*? All of these weaknesses, so easy to exploit. You even gave your poor barback a weakness.”

You turn to Dusty, feeling your heart drop, “Dusty. Why?”

He balls his fists up, “You can’t be stupid enough to think things will go well if you stay with him, *your name*.”

The Queen nods, pulling a sympathetic face, “Listen to the cute barback, *your name*, he only wants the best for you.” 

Dusty walks up to you and clasps your hands, “Please. The Queen is willing to fully pardon you of harboring a fugitive, if you just give him up.” 

You shake your head, the horror and disgust welling up inside you, “Give him up?”

He holds your hands tightly in his, you can see tears forming as he chokes them back, “You don’t have to love me *your name* but I can’t fucking stand by and watch you throw away your life because of him.”

You break free from his grip, the anger in your voice is biting, “What about quitting? About leaving Junkertown? About wanting MORE? Or was that just a fucking lie, Dusty?” 

He doesn’t say anything. A single tear rolls down his cheek. 

The Queen walks up next to Dusty and pats his shoulder, “Young Dusty here was offered a position last night. Usually, there’d be a test but he offered some tantalizing information about Junkrat. And Junkrat’s apparent weakness… He’s a smart young man. He knew if he left then there’s a good chance his one love would be hung right next to the criminal. So Dusty valiantly gave up the criminal to save you.” 

You take in a deep breath, the reality of the situation hitting you. There’s no escape. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged him as your type. You’re too sweet,” she steps towards you, “Too… good for him.”

You take a deep breath, “You know nothing.”

She grins, but you can feel like something has cracked beneath the surface, “Know nothing about him? I know he is a worthless, conniving, rotten piece of shit who doesn’t know the front end of a fucking missile if it was hitting him balls first.” 

“…I don’t know what beef you have with him-”

The Queen laughs, an unsettling cackle, “Darling, you have no idea.” 

“I don’t,” you say flatly, “I really don’t know anything.”

She growls, “Liar.” 

“I. Don’t. Know,” you huff. 

She looks like she could strangle you. But the look suddenly passes and she’s back to her smarmy, shit-eating grin, “Oh no, oh darling. Can’t you see what’s happening?”

You knit your eyebrows together. 

“He doesn’t trust you,” she tuts. “He cares more about his plan than you… that he rather not have a liability.”

“You’re wrong,” you interject firmly, a bit too indignantly for your liking. 

“My dear, this man has successfully left Junkertown and trekked across the entire fucking world on his mad crime spree. And now he’s back. He could’ve gone back for you, but no. He’s back for me,” her smile is maddening. 

You take in another deep breath, “It’s clearly important to him.”

“Is this really the man you love? His thirst for revenge outweighing the desire to be with you?” The Queen shakes her head. “For someone this smart, you sure are stupid when it comes to men.”

With steely calm and composure, you look at her, “I know what you did to him.”

Her smile fades and she eyes you coolly.

You keep talking, “And I respect what he has to do.” 

The Queen growls and moves towards you in a blur, “You think this is a game?!”

“No, I do not,” you snarl. 

She grabs you by the neck. She’s terrifyingly strong, “What. is. he. planning?”

“Fuck you,” you wheeze.

Her face contorts into the ugliest, angriest expression you’ve ever seen. 

You barely knit your eyebrows in confusion when it hits you. 

You feel searing pain in your left knee and suddenly you’re on the ground, the sound of a gunshot ringing in your ears. Your head slams into the dirty, sooty ground and your vision ripples, blurring. Everything moves so slow, the air feels so thick. And your leg. Your fucking leg is alight with fiery pain. You try to prop yourself up but there is no energy in your limbs. 

“YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD’NT HURT *your name*!!!” You hear Dusty scream… his voice sounds so far away. 

You feel your eyes grow so, so heavy. You blink just in time to see the Queen walk towards you. She stoops down and gives you the sweetest smile, caressing your cheek with the back her hand. She looks up at him, “I lied.”


	3. First Shot's Mine pt. III: Leaving the Ashes Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final conclusion to this Junker!Reader x Junkrat fic :) NB-reader, I think I would call this NSFW (and include a trigger warning for the major violence/gore/torture along with the usual swearing warning)

You wake up in a strange room. There’s a tiny window in the corner, casting a ghastly orange light inwards. You feel and hear your heart beat thumping through your skull, a tight pressure throbbing, bouncing inside your head. Hands grip the front of your shirt and haul you upwards. You recognize the face. It’s her.

“Alright, love, let’s try this one more time. What is he planning?” The Queen has your neck in a vice-like grip.

She releases so you can speak. You gasp for air. Your head is pounding. You don’t even have the energy to shake your head, “I.. don’t.. know.”

The Queen drops you on the floor like a rag doll, “Crucify ‘em. If they won’t tell me where that fucking rat is, we’re going to bait him out ourselves.”

The sentence paralyzes you with fear and you feel fresh energy course through. You buck and kick, screaming, as rough hands grab both of your arms, “No! No! NO! FUCK!”

You see a guard in the corner step forward and with a grunt drop a heavy, sun-bleached wooden cross onto the grimy floor. 

The Queen watches, hands on hips, as the two guards force you down onto the ground, onto the cross. 

You scream, louder than you’ve ever thought possible, but they have twice the size and strength against you. One of them gives you a swift kick right above your wounded knee and you feel all strength leave you in one sharp gasp. They easily strap you down onto the cross, securing your wrists and ankles against the dry, dead wood. 

The Queen walks over, crouches down until her lips are inches from your ear. Her voice is so gentle, so soft, so sweet, “Last chance before the first nail goes in, *your name.*”

Tears stream down your cheeks, blurring your vision, you sob, “Please… I don’t know.. I swear, he didn’t tell me anything.” 

She tuts, cupping your cheek in her hand, “Wrong answer, my dear. Bring the kid in!” 

You can’t move your head completely, but you hear the door swing open and the sound of struggling, shuffling feet. 

“*Your name!*” Dusty’s familiar voice screams. 

The Queen, still crouching by your side, still stroking and petting your cheek, smiles, “Ah, Dusty. *Your name* here is being difficult. I want you to hammer the first nail in.” 

You feel your breath choke in your throat. 

He stammers, “W-what?”

The Queen looks at one of the guards in the corner and he steps forward, dropping three, giant spikes onto the ground. 

She reaches to her side and pulls a rusty mallet off her belt, holding it out towards him, “Do it.” 

He doesn’t react. 

“As your Queen, I order you do it,” she repeats, an edge in her voice. 

Dusty’s voice breaks, “I-I can’t… you, you promised-”

With lightning speed, she’s up in his face, “And you swore to serve me as my Royal Guard, swearing complete and utter loyalty.” 

He’s crying, “I can’t hurt *your name*.”

The venom leaves her voice and she’s sickly sweet again. She places a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Oh, Dusty darling, I know. I know you can’t. You love them don’t you?”

He takes a sharp breath between his sobs, “More than anything.”

She places the hammer in his hands, “Then you’ll do them the mercy of nailing the nail in yourself, or I fucking will. And I will do it slowly. Inch by fucking inch.” 

Your breathing quickens. You know what is about to happen. Your hands clench and unclench helplessly. Your close your eyes. 

This is just a bad dream. This is just a bad dream.

You hear a soft thump and open your eyes to see Dusty hunched over you, crying, his tear-stained cheek brushes against your forehead as he cradles your head, “I’m so sorry *your name.* I should’ve listened to you… I’m so sorry.” 

You feel his lips brush against your forehead. You’d hold his hand if you could. 

The Queen stoops down, by the two of you, “When you strike that nail into their palm, and your hear them scream, Dusty. Think about who’s fault it is.” 

You sniff, stifling the whimper that threatens to come out, putting on a brave face for Dusty, “It’s okay. It’s okay, Dusty. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.” 

The Queen rolls her eyes and reaches for one of the spikes, “Crying time’s over, Dusty. Do it now.” 

He takes the heavy iron spike from the Queen’s hand and holds it above your hand. Breathing heavily, forcing yourself to take slow, deep breathes, opening your palm slowly. You gasp involuntarily as you feel his lips kiss your palm, soft as a prayer. The gentleness of his lips is replaced by by the cold, cold weight of the spike. 

“NOW!” The Queen shrieks. 

You blink. A strange hotness spreads through your palms into your finger tips, and like a whip cracking in the air, the pain snaps back and runs up through the length of your arm. You thought you couldn’t scream louder before. You’re dead wrong. Your could swear you saw bright white lights explode in your vision at the sheer agony. It is all too much. The horrible, horrible searing hotness, raging in your left palm, Dusty whispering apologies and pleas between his sobs. 

The Queen walks over and shoves Dusty to the side, grasping the head of the spike in her hand, “Now, let’s do this again, *your name.* I just want a small bit of information. Just a small bit.” 

You wince, “I. don’t. know. anything.”

She snarls with frustration, and jiggles the spike eliciting a scream from you, “WRONG ANSWER!” 

She mounts you, putting her full weight on your diaphragm. You can’t breath.

“NO!” Dusty throws himself at her but the guards pull him back, knocking the air out of him in a few hefty punches. 

“Useless piece of shit,” she spits in his direction, grabbing another spike. 

She smashes it into your right hand, right through your desperately clenched fingers, the blunt end mashing, digging into the flesh, “TELL ME WHERE HE IS YOU FUCKING, WORTHLESS CUNT!”

You can only scream. She shifts her entire body weight onto the spike and you feel it break right through your flesh onto the bone. An inhuman shriek leaves your throat. 

“TALK!” She grabs the mallet and strikes the spike deeper. Your bones crunch. 

“I DON’T KNOW!” You wail. 

“FUCKING LIAR!” She strikes the nail and drives it deeper again. 

“PLEASE!” You scream. 

She drives it in deeper. 

“PLEASE!” 

She drops the mallet and strikes you across the face. The stinging slap shocking you, clearing your vision briefly. 

“You keep fucking lying to me you son of a bitch and I will crucify Dusty next. I will gut him in front of you and slice out his organs one by one until he is dog’s meat if you do not fucking tell me what Junkrat is planning,” she digs her nails into the sides of your throat, drawing blood. 

You try to speak but no sound can come from your throat. 

“Your majesty!!” A breathless guard bursts into the room, her chest heaving from a mighty sprint. “It’s Junkrat!! He’s at the main gate!!!” 

She gets up with a grunt, and you can see her wipe herself clean of your blood, “Consider yourself lucky, *your name.* Your prince fucking charming is here.” 

You manage a weak nod, something like a smile beginning to form on your lips.

The Queen sneers. She dusts herself off and stands above you, “But he’s here for me. Not for you. Think about that.”

You close your eyes. It’s time. 

The Queen barks at her guards, “Alright, I want the crucifix and the fucking traitor on it hung at the gates. I want every fucking Junker here to know what happens when you betray me.” 

She walks over to Dusty and roughly grabs him by the face, “Leave him here. I don’t need any more complications. I’ll deal with him afterwards.”

Dusty lunges against her grip but she tosses his easily to the side. She coos, “Aw, nice try, kid. But don’t worry. I’m broadcasting this. You’ll hear every scream as I cut *your name* up.”

“You fucking cunt,” he gasps, clutching his stomach. 

“Mm,” she smiles and walks out the door, slamming it shut. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Searing, hot pain radiates from both of your hands. Strangely, your elbows crackle with static-like pain. You can barely breath with the rope digging into your neck, securing your head tightly against the cross. They secured your ankles together at the bottom of the cross and you quietly thank the heavens they didn’t nail your ankles down.

You blink. The sun is so high and so bright. A crowd gathers, watching. Gaping. Even with your blurred, dazed vision, you can make out shocked expressions. You’re grateful for the stunned silence. No one can believe it’s you. Whenever Junkers were made examples of, booing and jeering and cheering would echo through the omnium. 

You catch the eye of a few regulars and manage the weakest of smiles. They turn their faces and flit their eyes elsewhere, less the Queen catch their sympathetic looks. 

Finally, they prop you up, cross and all. The guards lift you with a grunt and set the cross’s bottom into a deep slot in floor. You wince and gasp as gravity takes its toll, your arms’ weight pulling down on the nails in your hands.

The Queen grabs a microphone, whipping the cordage around her wrist, and speaks into it, “Loyal Junkers, I have something particularly special for you today… Not only do we have an example to be made…We have an execution.” 

You jerk your head up, “No…”

“Ah, yes! We all know our favorite bartender *your name.* Well, this just goes to show that even the most treacherous snakes hide behind the most unassuming faces,” the Queen snaps with her free hand. 

A guard hands her a cruel-looking blade. 

“*Your name,* here has an impressive list of crimes. Harboring a fugitive, obstructing justice-” you’d scoff if you had the energy to “-lying to ME. Your QUEEN. What should I do to ‘em?”

There is a moment of silence. A voice volunteers, none too confidently, “Cut ‘em?”

A few scattered cheers of agreement pepper the air. The Queen growls, “I can’t hear you!”

“Cut ‘em!” The same voice repeats and the crowd, getting the hint, erupts into cheers. 

Voices join in. 

“TAKE THE EYES!”

“GUT ‘EM!” 

“CHOP THEIR FINGERS OFF!!”

She cackles, turning to you, “You hear the crowd. Now, for old time’s sake, I’ll let you choose what I take first, old friend.” 

You manage a bloody smile, “Take my fingers. I’m never bar-tending again with these bloody messes.” 

“It’d be my honor,” her smile is so wicked, “Oh, and by the way-”

You meet her eye as the blade stands poised, barely touching your thumb pad. 

“His plan failed.” 

She sneers, relishing the look of sudden shock in your eyes. But you barely have time to register it all when the blade crunches into your hand. You thought you couldn’t feel any from the ruined remains, but you’re wrong. Your left palm is alight with fire anew. You scream. 

The crowd roars in approval. 

“WHAT NEXT?!” The Queen asks the Junkers, holding the mic out towards the crowd. 

A very dominant voice stands out in the crowd, “GO FOR THE EYES!!!”

She turns to you, grinning oh-so-sweetly, “Shame, I always loved your eyes.” 

And in that moment, you hated her. Up until now, she was pathetic. Powerful, manipulative, charismatic, but pathetic. Like a child, screaming for toys, screaming for attention, screaming to be noticed.

Anger fills you with vigor and you met meet eyes. 

“Shame, he used to love you,” the words slip your lips before you could even stop. 

She completely stops, the mic falling from her hands, half a snarl on her lips, astonishment in her eyes, “W-what.” 

The speakers rumble and squeal in protest of the mic being dropped. Everyone covers their ears and groan, but you and her lock eyes. 

“I know what you did, I know how you used him. I know he built you the very goddamn mech that won you your seat in Junkertown’s court, that won you the title of Queen,” the words stream forth, you’re raving, uncontrolled, “I know you promised him title of King, but left him for dead in the Outback. Hoping the fucking dogs would take care of him.” 

She grips the blade so tight, you see her blood-stained knuckles strain. She says nothing.

You spit a mouthful of bloody spittle, feeling the pain fade from you as rage takes over, “Face it, babe, you’ve got the charisma but you’ve never had the talent or merit to be Queen.” 

For the first time in your life, you see horror on her face. Horror mixed with revulsion and disgust. With a strangled cry, something like a scream and a sob, she lunges towards you, knife first.

You close your eyes and wait. It’s over now. There is a searing pain, so magnificent and intense like an explosive going off in your brain, in your nerves. You swear you could hear your brain implode in agony. And then nothing.

Everything is black. Death isn’t so bad. It’s just fucking hot. And sticky. And God sounds a lot like Junkrat.

You blink. Your vision hazed and blurred by the blinding sun overhead. 

Jamison hovers above you, hunched over you, cradling you, whispering over and over, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… get up…”

You try to speak but feel your voice choked. Your throat is so dry. 

You can’t see anything, but you hear the Queen’s voice. She’s gasping in pain from something, feigning composure, “Finally you show up, Junkrat. I was beginning to lose faith.”

You feel your head roll and you see her through half-hooded eyes, there’s shrapnel in her gut. She’s swaying and clutching her side. There’s blood everywhere. There’s smoke everywhere… Junkertown is on fire. 

Without moving from your side, Jamison glares at her, “Woulda’ been here a lot quicker if it weren’t for your stupid fuckin’ gates.”

“It’s to keep the vermin out,” she smiles. 

His hand moves and you hear the click-ka-thunk-click of his grenade launcher. 

“Oh, now, Jamie, we both know you’re not going to do that,” she tuts.

“You’re not fuckin’ allowed to call me that,” he growls.

“Allowed? I’m Queen, babe. I can do whatever I want,” she laughs, an unpleasant leisureliness in her tone. 

“You fuckin’ crossed me, cunt. You took everything from me-”

“You fucking took everything away from yourself. I fucking spared you,” she eyes him coolly. “You should’ve left Junkertown when I gave you the chance.” 

“You left me to die,” he hisses. 

“And you came back, for me. What did that accomplish, Jamie?” She laughs, coldly. “You lost your arm last time. You lost your little pet this time.” 

You strain to make a noise, to let Jamison know you’re alright. But you’re so weak. All you can do is force your aching body to take in shallow breaths. 

The Queen strolls towards the two of you, “Face it, Jamie. No matter where you go. What you do. It’s me that you keep coming back to. And you keep paying the price for it. No matter what it is. How does it feel?”

Jamison breaths out slowly, clutching you tighter to his body. 

She scoffs, “I figured. You don’t love *Your Name.* You never did.”

“You don’t know nothin’!” He shouts.

There’s a bitter edge to her voice, “You never loved anyone or anything, Jamison. You’re not fucking here for them. You’re here for me. For revenge. And that’ll be the death of you, love.” 

“Don’t fucking talk to me like that,” he pulls the trigger and launched an explosive at her.

She deftly dodges it, despite being injured, moving in closer with her knife, “Oh what’s wrong, love? Stings doesn’t it?” 

“SHUT UP!” He screams, launching a volley of bombs. 

The Queen ducks and dodges them expertly, closing the distance between you two. She screams back, “YOU’RE NOT FUCKING CAPABLE OF LOVE, JAMISON!” 

She launches herself at Jamison and rams her shoulder right into his side. He staggers and drops you, stumbling back to keep himself upright. She kicks his hand, knocking the concussion mine from his hands and slams a fist into his jaw for good measure. 

“You don’t KNOW what I’m capable of, mate,” he spits, slamming a new clip of bombs onto his launcher. 

“I know you’re a monster,” she laughs, bordering a cackle, “Face it, babe. The reason we worked so fucking well together was because you and I, we’re bad. We’re Junkers.”

“You’re wrong,” he begins to straighten up, positioning himself in front of your prone form. 

“We’re fucking Junkers. We’ll never be anything better,” she laughs, incredulously, “You went on a fucking international heist to get my attention, love. You’ve schemed, murdered, robbed, destroyed… just to get here. Just to get revenge on me. Face it, Jamie. You haven’t changed one bit.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but you see his hands move for the last concussion mine in his pack. 

The Queen spreads her arms open and wide, “Do it. Kill me, you fuck.” 

“Oh, gladly, you piece of shit,” he snarls.

You summon every ounce of energy in your tattered, broken body to say something. 

“Jamie,” you manage the softest of protests. He can’t hear you. But she can see you. Her expression changes, shock before hardening again. 

Jamison whips around and scoops you back up, his voice breaking, “Fuck, I thought I lost you…”

“I don’t feel good,” you murmur. 

“I know, love,” he brings you closer to him, “Let’s… let’s get you outta’ here.”

“What?” The Queen hisses. “No. You’re not fucking going anywhere.” 

“Piss off, cunt!” 

“No!” She shrieks. “You’re here for me! So finish the goddamn job!!” 

You can see the frustration in his face, the snarl still hanging on his lips. You wish you could cup his face, tell him it’s alright. You try, but your limbs are lead. 

“Jamie,” you rasp. 

His expression softens instantly, while her expression sharpens, “Love! Talk to me..”

You manage the brightest smile, “You’re better than this…” 

“I’m… I’m better than this,” he whispers back, planting a firm kiss on your forehead. 

The Queen lunges at you both. Junkrat pulls back deftly, just in time. 

You try reaching for his hand, but the world spins. He seems to understand and grasps your hand for you, delicately. You pull a face and almost retch at the pain, but force the words out, “You’re a good man, Jamie.”

The fire in his eyes cools down, and his stance grows more confident, but his brows knit together. He takes a deep breath, buries his face in your neck, he growls, “Babe… I just… she needs to die.” 

You want to speak, tell him it’s okay. But the black edges shrouding your vision grow stronger, his face is fading. 

“Jamie,” you gasp, feeling your limbs turn cold. But he can’t hear you. 

A tingle, like you’re sinking into gritty sand, envelops you. You blink and your chest heaves. 

Jamison sets you down, kissing you deeply as he does. You feel your breath leave you as his lips part. Everything is so cold. Why is everything so cold?

“Alright, bitch, just you and me now,” he stands. 

The Queen laughs, a merciless cackle, her lips contorting into something like a smile, “Just how I like it.” 

She launches herself towards him and rams the knife into his metal arm. He angles it just in time to avoid the blade plunging into the sensitive joint. He grabs her by the forearms and tosses her to the side. She flies against the railing and drops the blade with a cry. 

You feel your tired, tired body is forcing your eyes shut. Your lungs refuse to take in deeper breaths. Your mortal shell knows it’s spent, but you refuse. 

Junkrat is on her, throttling her with his metal hand and trying to claw her eyes out with his flesh hand. She has a firm grip on the flesh hand, struggling against it with her other hand pries at the death grip on her throat.

“How’s it like to die like the pathetic animal you are?” He tightens his grasp. 

She smiles, that sickly sweet smile, eyes rolling into the back of her head.

Junkrat snarls, “What, bitch?!” 

The Queen gasps the words out, “I knew you’d never change.” 

“What?” 

She suddenly lets go of his hand and pulls sharply to the left, throwing him forward to the ground and clumsily escaping from his grip. She heaves for air, making small gagging noises as her lungs can finally fill again. 

The Queen picks up her knife and grins, rubbing her throat, “Missed that… though I never loved you, you were always a good fuck.” 

He makes an inhuman noise, throwing himself at her. The knife catches his cheek but he’s stronger and slams her wrist against the railing, knocking it out. She screams but kicks back, slamming a boot right into his gut. 

You feel so heavy. You’re sinking right into the ground. You feel… hurt? You just want Jamison to stop. You’re bitter. She’s taking your last moments on earth from him. You feel a tinge of anguish, so intense you let out a wracking cough… 

Goddammit Jamison… 

You feel warm hands cradle your head. A shadow cast over you, shielding you from the burning sun. 

“*Your name*?” His voice tremors. 

You don’t have the energy to look surprised. You whisper his name, “Dusty?” 

“Oh, thank god, you’re alive,” he chokes, breaking down into sobs. “I’m gonna’ get you out of here.” 

You close your eyes, feeling him pick you up. You breathe in the smell of him, grounding yourself. Willing the life to stay in your limbs. 

“Where do you think you’re going?!” The Queen’s demands. 

You feel Dusty halt, then bolt. His footsteps are like thunder in your ears. 

“OH NO YOU DON’T!” She screams, throwing her knife. 

Dusty cries out, his step falters, but he keeps running. 

“NO, NO, NO!” You hear her screaming still, but her voice is fading.

You only hear Dusty’s labored breathing. You only feel consciousness slip away.

Jamison… where the fuck are you, Jamison?

Then. 

Black. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“There’s a good fighter, that’s the *your name* I know,” Mick’s familiar, rumbly tone draws you back. 

“Mick?” You blink. You’re lying on a battered mattress. The room is unfamiliar, filled with boxes and crates and broken down cars. It’s quiet. 

You’re burning hot and cold all at once. You notice the rough bandages wrapped around your limbs. 

“Dusty got you here just in time,” Mick held a cup to your lips.

You drink the stale, warm water. You swallow, “Is he.. is he alright?”

“He’s sportin’ some nasty wounds, but he’ll live.”

Your voice cracks, “Thank you, Mick.” 

“Anything for a friend,” he smiles. 

“And Jamison?”

Mick’s quiet. 

“Mick, please,” you feel tears well in your eyes. 

You hear Dusty speak up, “He left.”

“What?”

“He fucking left,” Dusty’s tone is bitter. 

You feel the world spin, “Jamison… left?”

“Had his fight with the Queen, decided to fucking try and detonate himself and her off the face of the fucking planet,” Dusty spits out the words. 

Mick offers a sympathetic tone, “Junkrat blacked out from his injuries… word is his partner Roadhog retrieved him and left.”

“But he’s alive?” You feel the tears roll down your cheeks, stinging your cuts as they go. 

Dusty practically screams, “What does it matter? He fucking left you to die!!”

Your mouth is dry. 

Dusty balls his fists, “I am fucking SICK of you risking your life for this piece of shit!” 

Tears keep falling. 

“I watched him set you DOWN just to get at HER. YOU. WHILE YOU WERE BLEEDING, CUT, AND DYING,” he screams. 

You look at his face and finally notice the bloody bandage over his left eye. There’s a nasty, nasty scabbing cut on his jaw. He looks so tired. 

You curl up a bit on the bed. 

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE! *YOUR NAME*! HE DOESN’T CARE ABOUT YOU AT ALL! HE FUCKING CAME HERE FOR REVENGE.” 

Mick reaches out, “Dusty, maybe-”

“NO. *YOUR NAME* KNOWS IT. WHO THE FUCK WOULD LEAVE SOMEONE THEY LOVE TO DIE WHILE THEY PURSUE A GODDAMN FUCKING VENDETTA?” 

The tears keep rolling. The words barely leave your lips, “He’s… he’s a good person.” 

Dusty gasps in sarcastic disbelief, “Junkrat? A good person? He fucking LEFT YOU TO DIE.” 

You shake your head, voice breaking, “He’s a good person, Dusty.” 

Dusty is by your side, clutching your face, forcing you to look him. His voice breaks though his eyes are full of hurt and anger, “How the fuck is he a good person?”

You feel yourself break down into sobs, “Dusty. If I don’t believe in him, who will?”

Dusty looks stunned and lets you go. He sets himself down besides you and pulls you in, holds you closer. You feel yourself break down completely. The sobs and bawling consumes you. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You must’ve blacked out because when you jerk awake, the room is pitch black save for a gas-lamp Mick left. He’s no where to be seen, but Dusty is by your side, snoring gently. 

The wavering flame makes the shadows in the room dance. Somehow stacks and piles of crates look so terrifying at night. 

There’s a gentle sound, and he steps into the light. 

You pull yourself upright and nearly pass out again, “Jamison!” 

He staggers to you. He looks like shit. His metal hand is busted at the wrist, his torso covered in bloody scratches. 

You waste no time, pulling him in, kissing him so deeply, daring not to let go lest this be a dream. He pulls you in and holds you close and tight. 

When you finally part, you look deep into his eyes, “Babe, we need to get out of here.” 

He doesn’t meet your eyes, “I… I can’t.”

Your heart drops, “Jamison, you promised.”

“I said I needed to finish this,” he holds you closer.

Something fills your chest, like dread, “Jamie…”

“Please, *your name*, please…” he’s asking for permission, touching his lips to your bandaged hands.

You shake your head, your tone growing cold, “I… I lost my dad’s bar for you.”

He’s silent.

“I lost my hands… for you,” your voice wavers. “And you. You can’t do this for me?”

“That’s not fucking fair, babe,” he lets your hand go. “You know why I need to do this. How much she fucking hurt me!”

“How much she’s fucking hurt US.” 

He looks stunned for a moment.

You continue, “Jamison Fawkes. You’re not the only person who’s lost something or someone because of this goddamn fucking she-devil but I swear to God I rather kill you than let her have you too… because she’s fucking right. This revenge? This fucking plan of yours? She owns you. You’re consumed by her.” 

He backs up, the look on his face like he’s just tasted something sour, “So.. this, this is how it’s going to be?”

“Jamison!” You’re crying. “I love you.” 

His expression softens, and a trace of guilt flashes in his eyes. 

“I love you so much, but fuck you! FUCK YOU! If you think that I’ll fucking stand around and keep giving more of myself to a man who will keep chasing after revenge.” 

“…you don’t believe in me, anymore? You don’t think I can do it?”

“Jamie, you can. I know you can,” you feel your head ache, “But you’ll fucking die to do it. And that scares me.” 

There’s a quiet moment as he thinks, unable to meet your eye. 

“Jamie, please. Please. I just want to leave. I want to leave and be with you. Have a life with you.” 

He growls and begins pacing the room. 

“But.. that bitch needs to pay!” 

“Junkertown is burning… and she loves this, Jamie! She loves that you’re obsessed with her-”

“I’m not fucking obsessed with her! I just want her to die!” He snarls. 

You shake your head, “That’s what she’s betting on. She loves that you still care.”

He screams, “I DON’T FUCKING CARE! I JUST WANT HER DEAD!”

Dusty shifts from his sleep and bolts up, dagger in hand, “Whatthefuck?”

Jamison rolls his eyes, “Great… you.”

“YOU!” Dusty growls, up on his feet immediately. 

“Fuck off, kiddo,” Jamison sneers, “Nice job getting roped in by the Queen’s lies.”

“Rich, coming from you,” Dusty narrows his eyes. 

“Whatever kid, call me when your balls finally drop,” Junkrat scoffs. 

“Jamison,” you say sternly. 

“What? Oh you’re gonna’ defend him now?” He says, disgust dripping in every word

The words leave your mouth before you could stop them, “At least he saved me.”

Jamison’s eyes widen and he takes a step back. He bites his lips and he nods. There’s an odd calm in his body language, “You’re right. He did.” 

“Jamison… We can’t stay here. She’s going to find us and kill us. We are in no position to fight at all.” 

Jamison looks at Dusty, “Mate, I know we fight a lot but we care about the same thing.” 

Dusty looks hesitant, “Right…” 

“Take care of *your name*,” Jamison takes a step back, away from you. 

“Jamison, no!” You stagger towards him. 

He catches you in his arms, his eyes full of sadness, straining not to cry, “I… I can’t choose. I need to do this.”

“No you don’t! You don’t!” You ball your fists. 

“Way I see it, love… I’m no good for you. I’m not giving up on this, but I can’t get you killed either,” he kisses your forehead. “Least I can do is let you be and let you live your life.” 

“Jamison, no…” The tears rush down your face. 

“Thank you, for believing in me. Loving me. Thinking I’m a better man than I really am,” he kisses you. 

“But you are… you are.” 

“You can’t believe in what’s not there,” he whispers. 

You bawl, “I fucking hate her. I fucking hate you. Is she really worth this Jamison?”

“I’m not going to stop until she dies. But I won’t risk you either.” 

“Then don’t… just leave, Jamie, please,” you’re begging. 

“I love you, *your name*,” he leans in, touching his forehead to yours. “You made me believe that I could love again.” 

“Jamison, you fuck,” you sob, “You realize this means you don’t love me enough to choose me?”

His voice breaks and tears stream down his face, “I love you enough to let you go.” 

“Jamie,” you cry. 

“Good-bye, *your name*,” he kisses you one last time. 

He turns and leaves. Not even looking back.

You didn’t know you were capable of crying that much, or making such inhuman wails. You cry until exhaustion forces you to close your eyes and sleep. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“*Your name*?” Dusty calls to you. “Truck’s packed, let’s go.” 

“Yeah… yeah,” you cross your arms. It’s been a few months since the incident. Junkertown is a mess. A smoking fortress in the distance. 

You stare at your hands. Flexing the crude prosthetic fingers, hating the way they remind of him. There’s so much burning in the air that when you close your eyes, you can almost smell him again. Like he’s there by you. 

Dusty comes up next to you, nudging you, “Hey, you okay?”

“No,” you grimace, holding yourself, feeling the metal against skin, “But I’m ready.” 

Dusty grasps your hand and pulls you towards the car, “Let’s get out of this hell hole.” 

You speak softly, “Let’s go.” 

Dusty opens the door for you, attempting a smile, “I hear Mexico’s a beautiful country. Great food, sunshine and beaches.” 

“That sounds lovely,” you smile back. 

Dusty starts the car, “Just think, you and me, cold beers on the beach.” 

You nod, still staring at the burning city. 

Dusty looks at you with his good eye, “I’m sorry. I should’ve never gave you up.”

The comment twinges and you take a deep breath, “It wouldn’t have changed much. Whether you told the Queen or not, Jamison was never going to give up.”

“I.. I cost you your hands,” Dusty takes your hand in his, squeezing it. You can’t feel its warmth anymore. 

“I cost myself them,” you shrug. “It’s alright, Dusty. Let’s go.” 

He revs the engine and you begin driving away. Smaller and smaller, Junkertown shrinks. 

You close your eyes. The smell of smoke clears. He’s gone.

You lean back in the seat, “You know they make great margaritas in Mexico.”

“Oh yeah?” Dusty grins. “Too bad I don’t like mixed drinks.”

You smile a bit, “You offering to buy then?”

The orange dust of the Outback plumes behind you. Leaving a trail as you finally leave.

Dusty chuckles , speeding up, “First shot’s mine.”


End file.
